


notes to no one

by Anonymous



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Drabble Collection, Loneliness, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 07:16:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17678915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: a collection of late night vent notes





	1. 190205

>>

Whether or not [redacted] cried himself to sleep at nights was a truth only his downy comforter could tell. There's this thing he knows he does that isn't very good. He hides any and all negative emotions he has in a little metal box in his soul. All the hurt, struggle, stress, and anxiety he meets is hidden in the little red mailbox of his heart until no more can fit in and everything comes rushing out. It is only at night, when his house is asleep, that he ever dares open the latch. It is only at night that he allows the scattered little envelopes of pain rush out in a gentle stream of self pity. It is at night that warm tears turn into heavy, twine-bound parcels of guilt.

All he wants is love: the kind of love that helps you up when you're down, the kind of love that wipes away your tears when you cry, the kind of love that recognizes your faults and yet is still unwavering and unconditional. All he wants is love.


	2. 170326

>>

  
It's been empty. When did it get so empty? I'm not even sure if I'm capable of tears anymore. Chaos left me empty. An unsympathetic, unfeeling shell of who I once was. It feels like tears are welling, but they never fall. Why do they never fall?

Hollow words and hollow faces. How do I take a step back? The path from whence I came is gone, crumbled away when I took that step. There's nowhere left to go. There's no longer a path for me to walk, no longer a place. I've been estranged.

Circles close and doors slam shut. Some I left willingly, others no so much. The rest have been taken from my hands, hands that had no longer wanted. There's no place left to go. I'm left shuddering alone in the corner.

The only other way is for my hands to bleed, to wield the rusted ax and pound. To swing at iron doors until hours become days become weeks become years. To hope that with my struggle, I may find a path for myself on the other side.

What's left for me here? What's left that hasn't been taken? The towering walls I've built must be torn before anything else is discovered. Maybe theres something more for me out there, waiting to be found.


	3. 190206

>>

 

Is it bravery or cowardice to not want to kill yourself? The pain, the guilt, the suffering of others; these are really the only I still hold on sometimes. My will to live has long perished with my naïvete. Things I once enjoyed are now simply things I do in routine. The faces I put on may be real sometimes, but when I'm alone, those moments lose their color too. The world grows black and white. Ending things would be easier. Ending things would be easy. Never again would I have to deal with anxiety and insecurity. Never again would I have to deal with myself.


End file.
